“Please, Mr. Bunce,” begged the barmaid. “I’d not ask if I weren’t going mad with the strain of it. A bogle downstairs—why, it don’t bear thinking on! How am I to work in such a place?”
Alfred sighed. He had retrieved his match and struck it against a wall; now he was drawing on his pipe as he lit it. Puff-puff-puff. For a moment his face was obscured by a cloud of smoke.
Finally he rose and flicked his burnt match into the fireplace.
“Aye, very well,” he rasped. “You’ll want me there now, I daresay?”
“As soon as ever you can,” the barmaid replied happily. And Jem took advantage of her mood, edging up to her with his hand outstretched.
“Tuppence, miss?” he softly reminded her.
The sight of it brought back horrible memories.
“You’ll do exactly as I say, lad. Exactly,” Alfred insisted, turning his head to fix Jem with a grim look. “Is that clear?”
“Yessir.”
“Don’t you take yer eyes off me. Not for one instant. And when I move, you move. Or you’ll pay the price, make no mistake.”
Jem nodded. He had always favored the idea of being a bogler’s boy, because bogling was such a flash occupation, like smuggling or highway robbery. People respected boglers. Unlike a grocer’s boy or a crossing sweeper, a bogler’s apprentice could walk down the street with a swagger in his step—not to mention a steady wage in his pocket.
“What’s me own cut o’ the fee, Mr. Bunce?” Jem asked, smothering a sudden pang of rage at the thought of Sarah Pickles. “How much did Birdie get for a job?”
“She got what she deserved,” Alfred said shortly. “As you will.”
Then he started to lay out his equipment, unwrapping his spear and testing the hinges on his dark lantern. Watching him, Jem felt slightly unnerved. Bogling could be dangerous. Jem understood that. He’d almost been eaten by a bogle once. And just because Alfred had saved him the last time didn’t mean it would happen again.
For all he knew, he could be making the biggest mistake of his life . . .
About the Author